Ducks and the Apocalypse
by FullMetalCanine
Summary: The Apocalypse happens again, and almost no one notices. Rated T for violence and minor curse words. Be aware I ship Aziraphale/Crowley, but it won't be the focus of the story. Also, Destiel, because Lucifer bless it so cute!
1. Chapter 1

I don't own any of the characters from Good Omens. That honor belongs to Neil Gaiman and Terry Pratchett alone.

* * *

The day was bright, sunny, and warm, not at all the kind of day you'd expect from the Apocalypse(1).That's not to say no one thought it might be coming, because there were several conspiracy theorists who were hell-bent on it, but everyone who had a firm grasp on reality was sure it was going to be a lovely day(2).

The two people-shaped beings who were most sure of the average innocence of the day were currently feeding ducks(3).

"You don't suppose we should be doing something else?" mused a man-shaped being in a ridiculous tartan sweater.

His companion, dressed far more elegantly in a black suit(4) and ever-present sunglasses, shrugged in a way that suggested he was not really listening.

"Nah." Crowley, the Tempter of Man, said with another shrug. "Unless you've run out of bread."

The style-inpaired angel, known as Aziraphale, rummaged in the paper bag he brought. "Not yet."

"Good."

"We are out of wine, though."

Crowley looked over at the Aziraphale. "Get some more, then."

"Haven't you had enough, dear?" Aziraphale said, raising an eyebrow.

The demon grinned crookedly(5),shaking his head.

"No such thing, angel."

The former guardian of the east gate of Eden sighed, then used his perfectly manicured nails to throw some more rediculously expensive bread in the general direction of the ducks. "Don't you have some traffic lights to blow out or something?"

"What's this? You, telling me to spread discord?"

"I'm telling you to do your job, dear."

Crowley's yellow eyes peeked over his sunglasses. "My job is making your job more difficult. So, I am doing my job."

Aziraphale threw the last of the bread to the ducks, who by now had moved over to a shady looking figure on the other side of the pond(6).

"Fair enough." The angel said, shrugging.

* * *

(1): Mk 2.

(2): It was going to be lovely weather, but a rotten day overall.

(3): The most sure in Tadfield, you understand.

(4): A suit that would have looked tacky on just about anyone else.

(5): One of the only ways a demon can smile.

(6): A shady, lurking figure glaring at Crowley.


	2. Chapter 2

I don't own Good Omens or Supernatural, blabbity bloo blah blee. Takes place in—um..., season—...Y'know what? Pick angel civil war season. And there are TWO Crowleys.

* * *

The lurker, who I left you with in the last chapter, is named Hastur. Most of the denizens of Hell are beginning to get their heads out of their arses with the names, and while there are plenty of Alistairs, demons nowadays are going with names like Ruby and Victor. Unfortunately for everyone around him(1), Hastur payed no attention to the changing times, to the chagrin of everyone who ever had to ask how his name was spelled.

He lurked in the bushes, and though not much could be said for his intellect, his strength, or even his competance, no one could argue that Hastur wasn't an excellent lurker. He had long since mastered the look of being both vaguely ominous and yet not out of place, making him a valuable asset to Hell's upper circle in that he was the most bland, inconspicuous, vaguely threatening demon in existence(2).

But, regardless of his abilities, he had a very one-track mind, so he wasn't looking for Dean Winchester. Dean, however, and the butt of his shotgun, were looking for Hastur. The Duke of Hell crumpled to the ground ungracefully.

"Sammy!" Dean hissed to his brother.

Sam Winchester scooted next to him. "Yeah?"

Dean motioned to the well dressed man on the park bench. "Demon?"

"Dunno, it's kind've hard to see.." Sam said, squinting. "And the guy next to him?"

Dean leaned forward a little bit, then shook his head.

"Nah, demons have better fashion sense then that."

Sam shrugged. "I'll trust your judgement." He said, smiling.

"I'm calling Cas." Dean huffed.

After several moments of praying(3), there was a noise like the flapping of wings, and behind the Winchesters arrived an angel, wearing a man, wearing a trenchcoat.

"Yes, Dean?" Castiel said, irritated. "I'm in the middle of a civil war i-"

"S'okay, Cas, we just need to ask—those guys," Dean pointed to the men on the bench, "—what are they?"

"A demon, and—," Cas frowned. "—an..angel?"

"I thought the angels were all in Heaven." Sam said, his eyes looking upwards as if he were watching for angels.

"To my knowledge, all of them are. Perhaps there is record of this angel in Heaven, although," Cas admitted, "I do not know his name."

Dean grinned. "I think we can help with that, right Sammy?"

(1): Which was sort of the point, if you thought about it.

(2): He was a Duke of Hell, but he wasn't very bright, so he blended in well with humans.

(3): Or what Dean saw as praying, i.e minor curse words and about as much respect as a drunken text message.


	3. Chapter 3

**I don't own Supernatural or Good Omens.**

Aziraphale saw them, from the corner of his eye. It was hard not to—they weren't making a good effort to stay hidden. Three men. Or, rather, two men and one man shaped being. The shorter man was talking to an angel, and in a moment of panic he wondered if Heaven was finally punishing him for the Apocalypse-that-wasn't fiasco. It had been a while, but then again Heaven was having some problems, so he couldn't really blame them for taking so long. And it wasn't like he was complaining.

The moment faded as he saw the shotgun the shorter man was carrying. Angels didn't need shotguns, therefore they—probably— weren't after him. Probably.

Crowley tensed up next to him, eying the shotgun with something less than Aziraphale's relief, fear apparent on his face along with a sort of nervous guilt.

"Angel..." He hissed, gesturing to the hunters. "Think it'sss about time we be going?"

Aziraphale nodded, standing up with his hand straying to his pocket. The three men, the tallest trying to look innocuous, the shorter man trying to look subtle, and the angel trying to look businesslike. All three failed miserably, of course, but it was an admirable try nonetheless, and Aziraphale resisted the urge to give them a pat on the back and a little golden star.

"Come along, Crowley," He said, "We should be going."

At Crowley's name all three gave them glares, each at varying levels of hostility. The shorter man lifted his shotgun threateningly and the tall one gripped his knife tightly.

"Agreed." Crowley said abruptly, begining to walk away.

The duo of hunters followed them, while the angel flew back to Heaven.

Aziraphale quickened his pace, going as fast as possible while still staying at a walk. Crowley, however, was going at a moderate jogging pace. Every time they sped up, the two hunters would as well.

After several minutes of this Aziraphale reached his shop. He held the door open for Crowley, then shut the door quickly, sliding against the door in an effort to brace it.

"Do you know these people?" He asked Crowley, "Because they seem to know you."

Crowley blanched. "Of course not, they're hunters. Shoot first, introduce yourself later."

As if to prove the demon's point, a shot went through the door, barely missing Aziraphale and rendering the door useless. The hunters burst in, guns flailing and waving a flask of holy water around.

"Be careful with that stuff!" Crowley yelped, jumping backwards. "Are you insane!"

"Oh, what, this?" The shorter man yelled, shaking the flask.

The demon stepped back more, shaking. "Yes, that, what else would I—AAAAGH!" Crowley screamed(1), dodging a splash of holy water.

"Dean, calm down," The taller man warned, "Angel, remember?"

"Aw, Sammy, c'mon. Crowley!" Dean whined.

Crowley eyed the flask nervously. "Let's talk about this!"

The two hunters looked at eachother, then nodded.

"Okay," Sam said, "Let's talk about this."

Aziraphale and Crowley both blinked in surprise, obviously not expecting them to actually consider diplomacy as an option. Usually hunters were exclusively violent. Talking was out of the question most of the time, but evidently these men were more civilized.

"Huh. I...didn't expect that to work." Crowley said truthfully.

Aziraphale nodded serenly. "See, humans are very reasonable."

"Start talking or you get a faceful of lead." Dean snapped.

The angel sighed. "Or not."

_(1): The scream was very high pitched and would have been hilarious under different circumstances_.

**A/N: Okay, chapter three. Nice! And...I have one follower! Hurray! This is a real achievment, everybody! Let's have a round of applause!**


	4. Chapter 4

**I don't own Supernatural or Good Omens. Neither would be very good if I did.**

Dean didn't have any idea what was going on. Usually there was the firm assurance that no matter what happened, some monster or demon or ghost was going to end up dead. For real this time. But in this hunt, nothing was certain except for the solid fact that this wasn't how this was supposed to go. He was not supposed to be drinking tea with the enemy. It wasn't a rule—it was just universal knowledge, the common sense that went hand in hand with 'Don't kill yourself for no reason' and 'You need to breathe'.

But here he was, holding his Earl Gray with lemon awkwardly while his brother talked about books with the angel with horrible fashion sense, Aziraphale. Crowley, who was not the Crowley they knew—was it a very common name in hell?— looked similarly uncomfortable. Every time the demon was roped into a conversation, he would cough and add some sugar or milk to his tea, and by now the drink was almost solid, a fact he was trying to hide by stirring it constantly.

Dean looked around in an attempt to avoid the conversation slowly inching towards him like a zombie with it's legs cut off, getting the general layout of the bookshop. It was dusty, and he could see mold creeping steadily up one of the bookshelves. The only things in the shop that wasn't in disrepair were the books themselves, pristine and in an order he recognized as the Dewey Decimal System. (Which he only knew because he spent a ridiculous amount of time as a kid in the library when he was allowed on hunts.)

He stirred his tea in a futile effort to keep it lukewarm, but what he didn't know (And this could be attributed to his lack of experience with science) is that friction didn't work on liquids and swishing the drink around only served to make it colder. Dean figured this out the hard way—he put the cup to his lips and found his Earl Gray stone cold. It was only his discipline that stopped him from comically spraying the tea everywhere, an act that would surely end the strained alliance which served to both sate his curiosity and accommodate the two bibliophiles in their respective groups.

Aziraphale took note of the ruined drinks of both his partner/adversary and the shorter of the two hunters, and took the opportunity to serve them both some hard liquor and black coffee, respectively. The former of the drinks he took great care in serving, filling halfway the smallest of the shot glasses he owned. Despite his friend's amazing resilience to alcohol, he couldn't risk the newly formed truce—held together only by shaky logic and a shared love of books— with the chance that Crowley might not get utterly drunk and start talking about things he was, never, ever supposed to talk about, ever. (They had both agreed to never talk about Babylon again, but alcohol had a nasty habit of throwing such pacts out the window—and then who knows where Aziraphale would be.)

"So, um...Cas should be getting here shortly," Dean said, "But for now we'll have to wait."

Aziraphale raised a near-perfect eyebrow. "Cas?"

"Short for Castiel." Sam supplied. "The angel?"

"Oh, I know who Castiel is." Aziraphale chuckled.

Crowley raised a hand and coughed. "Er, I don't. At all."

"Well, where to start..." Aziraphale began.

**A/N: Two in one day! That has to be some kind of record, right? Anyways, my little shrimplets, (inside joke, but that's what I'm calling you guys from now on) see you soon! 8^)**


	5. Chapter 5

**I'm sorry I've been gone for so long, but I saw a review just a couple minutes ago and threw myself to my computer to write so...here's a new chapter! Again, I don't own anything!**

Aziraphale's eyes twinkled, and Crowley's face was red with laughter (and the alcohol he had consumed) as the angel talked about Castiel's childhood.

"A-and then...," Aziraphale said between bursts of laughter, "He could never show his wavelength around the northern gate again!"

The Winchester boys didn't laugh as hard as Crowley did, partly because of the use of angel terminology(1) and partly because Crowley was drunk off his ass and would probably laugh at an empty wall.

"Okay, angel, sssince you got to tell your ssstory,"Crowley hissed,"Lemme tell you boysss about Babylon..."

"No!"

Sam looked to Aziraphale with an eyebrow raised, and silently noted that Crowley was hissing.

"I-i mean, they don't want to hear about Babylon, dear! Ah, did I tell you about...Mesopotamia?(2)" Aziraphale yelped.

Dean smiled wickedly, then said, "I want to hear about Babylon."

"Okay. Ssso 'Zira was drunk off his arssse, 'caussssse it wass his firsssssst time trying wine—it had been around for sssome time, but he'sss ssso...anywaysss, then we—(3)"

Crowley was inturuppted by both the arrival of a storm of books and Aziraphale trying stop him from continuing.

Castiel, holding seventeen scrolls and balancing three books precariously on his head, was followed by what seems to be a whole library's worth of knowledge. Dean scrambled to his feet."Uhm, Cas! Hey! So, we were just getting information—" He bagan.

Aziraphale's cheeks flushed. "What happened in Babylon was NOT information."

Crowley nodded tipsily. "Yeah, it was better then tha—"

He was cut of by a swift whack of to his head, courtesy of Aziraphale, that knocked him unconscious.

"Okay," Aziraphale said, straightening his glasses, "Now we can—"

Dean knocked him out.

•

While their hosts lay strewn like dirty laundry on the floor of the back room of the bookshop, the Winchesters (and Castiel) flipped through the contents of the entire section of the celestial library having to do with the identity of this angel. After learning his identity, Cas flipped through the Old Testament.

No one in the recent years went by names like 'Aziraphale' anymore. It was always Hannah, or John, or something equally inconspicuous(4). Even Castiel himself, around humans, went by 'Cas', because a name like Castiel would raise too many eyebrows.

Went he finally found him in a revised edition of the Bible, conveniently located in the bookshop itself, he was quite surprised.

For an angel(5).

•

(1) 'Wavelength' is actually the best way to describe the true form of most angels—with more wings and heads and such, but wavelength is really the best term.

(2) In reality, Mesopotamia had been almost just as embarrassing as Babylon, just with less alcohol involved.

(3) He was about to say 'held hands and giggled, and would later thank Aziraphale for stopping him.

(4) Both Demons and Angels tried to evolve with the times, you know. Angels, however, less so.

(5) He raised his eyebrows slightly and gasped softly.


End file.
